50 Shades of Sherlock
by RadiantSeraphina
Summary: A distraught woman from Washington comes to England, seeking the web-famous detective and his blogger in the hopes of finding her missing friend Ana Steele, last seen with American billionaire Christian Grey Crossover with 50 Shades of Grey. Serial killer AU .
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer: **I do not own _Sherlock _or _50 Shades of Grey. _

The woman that came upstairs was young, probably her early twenties, and very pretty. Well, she had ever indication of having once been pretty. Presently, she wasn't quite pretty. Her skin was pale and gaunt. There were dark circles under her eyes. The woman's clothes were well-made and clearly expensive, but she'd neglected to do anything appropriate with her hair, which had the appearance of being hastily pulled back. She was stressed, then. Worried.

Sherlock's blue eyes continued scanning. Her fingers were long and slender with a callus on the middle finger of her left hand. Left-handed then, someone left-handed who wrote a lot. Judging by her age, likely a student; she took a lot of notes. She stood straight, her shoulders rolled back, indicating a confidence in herself, in spite of her bedraggled appearance. "You are...you are Mr. Holmes?" she asked.

American. Tired. "Do you need to ask?" Sherlock drawled. "This _is _221b Baker Street, and you've just entered my flat. Either you make a habit of entering strangers' flats, or you've come here looking for Sherlock Holmes, which if you've read a paper in the past few months, you'll realize is me."

"Sherlock."

Sherlock glanced towards John, who sat in the armchair nearby, leveling a do-you-have-to-be-such-an-arse look at him. "Well, it was an idiotic question," Sherlock retorted.

"Mr. Holmes, I'd prefer you not treat me like an idiot. I've come here to seek your help."

"Of course, you have—all the way from America, in fact. That's quite far. Where is that accent from? The Northwest?"

The woman's green eyes widened. "Washington. How did you...?"

"I'm a _detective_. I _detect _things."

"Why don't you have a seat?" John cut in.

Sherlock glanced towards John again. John glared pointedly at him. His eyes darted back to the woman. She slowly moved to sit in the vacant chair in the center of the room. "How can we help you?" asked John.

The woman furrowed her brow. "Mr. Wa—oh, I mean, Dr. Watson? You write the blog."

"Oh. Yes, I do."

"I've read it," the woman said.

"Which is why you're here," Sherlock interrupted. "You have a problem, and you think I can solve it."

The woman took a deep breath and nodded. "I'm Katherine Kavanagh—from Washington, as you said. I'm looking for my friend, Ana Steele."

The woman's voice broke, and Sherlock impatiently leaned his back against the wall and waited for John to soothe the woman. "Kate," Sherlock cut in.

The woman's head jerked towards him. "How did you...?"

"Know that everyone calls you 'Kate'? Most women your age wouldn't like to be called something as old-fashioned as Katherine. Kate, then. Obviously. Now your friend—female, I'm assuming? She's gone missing? Boring."

"You don't understand. I think she's...she's been kidnapped or worse," said Kate, tears gathering in her eyes. "A...a month or so ago, she met this man—Christian Grey."

Kate paused and looked at Sherlock, clearly expecting the name to have some significance. Sherlock raised an eyebrow in John's direction. "American billionaire," John said. "He does some...well, he's a big businessman. He does some charity work in the Middle East."

"He's in telecommunications," said Kate, "And he's huge. My friend Ana met him. It was...my fault. He's a huge benefactor at the university I attend, and I wanted to interview him—student paper. I caught the flu, so I convinced Ana to go. That's how they met."

Kate took a shuddering breath. "Take your time," John muttered.

"So you think this billionaire killed your friend?" Sherlock asked.

Kate swallowed. "I don't know," she said, "But I didn't...he gave me a bad feeling, Christian Grey. They began...sort of a relationship. I guess. We went to party the last night I saw her. We'd graduated! We'd finished our final exams, and we got drunk. I...I didn't see her after that. I texted her, and she never—never replied. I went to Christian, but he claimed he didn't know. I _know _he did something to her. I just know he did."

"But you have no evidence."

"No, and I called the police. I told them what he'd done, and they laughed at me! Christian threatened to have me charged with slander, but I _know _he's done something with Ana. I need...I need someone who isn't afraid to _look _for her. I don't care if she's dead. I know she probably is, but I have to _know_. Please, Mr. Holmes—Sherlock Holmes. Please. I'll pay anything. I'll _do _anything."

John offered Kate a tissue, which she accepted and swiped at her tear-filled eyes. She looked even worse after her bout of crying. "Please," she said. "You're the best. If anyone can find her, you can."

Sherlock pondered the case in his mind. It didn't seem all that interesting. Young women running off with enigmatic billionaires sounded like the back summary of a trashy romance novel—not that Sherlock read any of those, but he'd seen a few on Donovan's desk. "Can I see you phone?" Sherlock asked.

Kate looked surprised, but she shuffled through her purse and wordlessly handed him the phone. It was nice and new. Expensive. Pink. The wallpaper was of her and a girl with too-big blue eyes and wild brunette hair. "This is your friend—on your phone?"

Kate blinked a few times. "Yes."

Sherlock scrolled through texts. The last ones were to a number listed as Ana Steele.

_RU OK Ana_

_Where RU Ana_

_Damn it Ana_

Then, Sherlock glanced at the desperate woman again. Maybe the case was a six. A seven at most.

_Ana call me_

_Ana plz_

_Ana where RU_

Sherlock wordlessly passed the phone back to the distraught woman. His eyes flickered towards John, who kept gazing at the woman, his eyes filled with sympathy. No doubt, John would say they _had _to take the woman's case. "Very well, Kate," said Sherlock. "We'll take the case, and I promise you that I'll find Ms. Ana Steele."

Kate jumped to her feet. "Thank you," she whispered. "Thank you, Mr. Holmes!"

"Leave your number with John," Sherlock said. "We'll be in touch."


	2. Sky

**Disclaimer: Sadly, I still do not own ****_Sherlock. _****Or ****_Fifty _****for that matter.**

* * *

Hours after Kate left, Mrs. Hudson entered the flat. John glanced up at her from where he'd been packing Sherlock's clothing for him. Sherlock wasn't the sort of person who packed clothing for trips. Rather, he was the sort of person who tried to pack as many barely legal things in his suitcase as possible. John was already dreading the fights with customs and airport security. "Good morning, Mrs. Hudson."

"Good morning, John," the landlady replied. "Sherlock's-"

"I need to speak with Sherlock," said Mycroft, stepping around Mrs. Hudson. "Perhaps he can explain why he's just purchased two first class tickets to Florida?"

"Florida?" John asked, pausing in his packing.

"Washington," Sherlock cut in as he entered the room.

Sherlock strode across the room and picked his skull off the mantle. "Sherlock, you can_not _take a human skull on the plane!" John protested.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Oh? I don't see why not."

"Because normal people don't take _skulls _on flights! You'll probably get arrested under suspect of terrorism or something."

"I won't," said Sherlock. "Airport security won't find the skull—or anything else."

John sighed. "Sherlock," said Mycroft. "Plane tickets?"

"Right. Yes. I need to go across the pond for a case. I thought I'd use your card. You have money to spare."

"Sherlock, you bought first-class tickets to _Florida, _a rental car, a five night stay in a _very _expensive hotel, _another _rental car, and God knows what else!_"_

"I bought tickets to Washington, too. Plane change," said Sherlock. "John and I will have to change planes. That should show in your bank account soon. Fair warning."

"You are such a child, Sherlock."

Sherlock looked at the skull in his hand for a moment, as if contemplating throwing it at Mycroft. "Mrs. Hudson, do you fancy visiting your sister-in-law? John and I will be in Pensacola. We could pick you up on our return flight."

John turned his attention to the landlady, who smiled softly. "Oh, Sherlock, that'd be lovely, and I really can't."

"Of course, you can. I'll have Mycroft pay for the ticket. Consider it as payment for the broken window downstairs."

"I don't think it quite qualifies as 'payment' if Mycroft buys the ticket, Sherlock," said John.

"What is this case, anyway?" asked Mycroft, helping himself to the single chair that wasn't covered in luggage.

"A billionaire," said Sherlock. "Mrs. Hudson, shouldn't you begin packing? The plane leaves at four. It already ten o'clock."

Mrs. Hudson looked startled. "Sherlock, I'm not sure I can accept-"

"You can. I already bought the third ticket. It'd be a pity to waste it."

Mrs. Hudson exchanged a wry smile with John. "It'd be nice to have you," said John. "You should come since we're going there anyway."

"Yes, I suppose so. Well, I'd better pack. I'll just leave you boys alone then."

Mrs. Hudson left, smiling brightly. John thought it'd taken very little convincing to get her to agree. He looked to Sherlock for an explanation, but the man was still staring at his skull, as if wondering whether he really wanted to bring it or not. "What is this case, Dr. Watson?" asked Mycroft.

"Why are you asking him?" asked Sherlock.

John glanced between the two men. Sherlock had hidden the skull somewhere and was watching Mycroft with a faintly irritated look, like a cat that'd been disturbed from its nap. Mycroft coolly ignored his brother and addressed John again. "I need to know how many agents to send," he said.

"No, Mycroft. John and I will be perfectly safe _on our own_."

Mycroft raised an incredulous eyebrow. "Really, Sherlock? The last time I let you and John do something by yourselves, you were nearly blown up by a psychopath. That last time I let you do something by yourself, you nearly let Irene Adler bring Britain to its knees."

If Mycroft meant to get a reaction from his younger brother, he failed, for Sherlock's expression never faltered at the mention of Irene Adler. "It's just a kidnapping, possibly murder. Child's play."

"If it was child's play, you wouldn't be interested. John, be an adult and tell me what dangerous thing my brother is planning on dragging you into."

Sherlock scowled, and John shrugged. "It's a missing person case," said John, "A woman named Anastasia Steele."

Mycroft leaned forward in the chair, his fingers absentmindedly tapping along the handle of his umbrella. "Kidnapping, you say?"

"Possibly. Not that it's any of your business," said Sherlock, who began stuffing a bottle of hydrogen peroxide into his carry on.

"Airport security, Sherlock," sighed John. "They won't let you take that on."

Sherlock made a huff of annoyance and began pulling the carefully folded jumpers out of John's suitcase to stuff in _his _bottle of peroxide. "It's always my business when it involves you, Brother Dear," said Mycroft. "I'm assuming there's a suspect since you think kidnapping?"

"Yes," said John, shooting Sherlock a sharp look. "Christian Grey. Have you heard of him?"

Mycroft raised an eyebrow and looked towards Sherlock. "Christian Grey the billionaire?"

Sherlock shrugged and zipped John's suitcase halfway closed. John sighed as Sherlock began trying to shove his crumbled jumpers back inside. "Sherlock, that man is dangerous," said Mycroft.

"So are you."

"I'm sending bodyguards with you."

"Absolutely not."

"Sherlock, you cannot seriously expect me to let you go to America and accuse a very influential businessman of murder!"

"I can, and you will. If you send bodyguards, I'll lose them, Mycroft. Don't bother."

Mycroft frowned. "Sherlock, there are times when I sincerely regret not giving you to a jubilee of gypsies as a child."

"Store, Mycroft."

"What?" John asked.

Sherlock sighed dramatically and threw himself on the sofa, seemingly oblivious to the piles of luggage he'd just sprawled himself over. "Store is the collective noun for gypsies," said Sherlock.

"Why do you even _know _that?" asked John.

Sherlock shrugged. "I'm sending bodyguards, Sherlock," said Mycroft.

"No, you're not, and you're not sending Lestrade, either."

"Why not Lestrade?" asked John. "He went to Baskerville with us."

"Because this isn't about protection," stated Sherlock. "It's about Mycroft trying to control what I can and cannot do."

"I just want to protect you," Mycroft said.

"No," said Sherlock, jumping to his feet. "No bodyguards, no Lestrade. Now if you'll kindly leave, I need to finish packing."

Sherlock left the room, and John gave Mycroft an awkward glance. He always felt in the way when those two talked. "Is it really so difficult to believe that I care?" muttered Mycroft.

John said nothing, surprised by the man's strangely vulnerable statement. "Well," said Mycroft, standing. "Dr. Watson, I do hope that you'll keep an eye on him?"

"Always."

"Very good, then."

Mycroft strode from the room, and mere seconds after he left, Sherlock emerged again, carrying his harpoon. "Sherlock, you cannot seriously be thinking of taking that harpoon with you."

"Don't be stupid, John. I brought it in here, so I can threaten Mycroft with it when he comes back."

"Comes back?"

"Of course, he's coming back. He's already had his PA research Christian Grey. He'll probably return with a stack of papers—boring papers, mind you, and expect me to read them."

"And you won't."

"Of course not."

"But a harpoon, Sherlock? You can't stab a man to death with a harpoon! That was the point of the whole pig-harpooning fest you had—to prove how difficult it was!"

"You're right, but Mycroft doesn't know that."

"Of course not," muttered John.

John resumed the packing of Sherlock's shirts, vaguely aware that the younger man was perching on the edge of the sofa and watching him. "Why are you packing my things?" asked Sherlock.

"Because you'll need them."

John glanced up at Sherlock and saw the detective gazing at him contemplatively. "I'd do the same thing as Kate," he said.

John finished packing the shirts and zipped the case shut. "What do you mean?" he asked.

"She came all the way from America to London just to ask me to find her best friend. She even admitted that her friend might be dead, but she had to know where she was. She had to see the body. That's a lot of effort for someone who might be dead."

"I suppose," said John.

"And I'd do the same," Sherlock said, "For you."

Sherlock picked at the threads on the sofa in a rare sign of hesitance. "John, I just thought maybe you needed to hear that."

"You don't have to tell me that, Sherlock. I know you would."

"Right. Of course you know. Well, I have experiments that need to be frozen."

Sherlock left for the kitchen before John could do so much as think of a reason for Sherlock's bizarrely sentimental behavior.

* * *

John had fallen asleep in the cab on the way to the airport. Sherlock let him sleep, actually interested in the man's habits. He didn't make a special habit of watching John sleep, but it was interesting, in a way. For one thing, John talked in his sleep. Unfortunately, he wasn't saying anything of interest. Most of his words were incoherent rambling. Still, Sherlock had never known anyone to talk in his sleep, so he discretely filed it under things for further investigation.

Sherlock's phone beeped, and he opened the text message.

_S, have you read the papers Anthea gave you?_

Sherlock typed in a definite _No _and hit 'send'.

Seconds later, the phone beeped again.

_Then, I can safely assume that JW will be reading them?_

_Possibly._

_Fine. That's better than nothing._

_Why are you texting? Surely, you're not at the Diogenes this early in the morning?_

_No, I'm in a meeting. It's boring._

_A meeting? This early?_

_Phone meeting with some diplomats from America._

_What are you doing?_

_Relax, S. It has nothing to do with you. _

_Oh, I'm sure._

Sherlock scowled as his phone fell silent. He shook John's shoulder, and the man blearily mumbled something incomprehensible. "We're here," said Sherlock. "Pay the cabbie."

Sherlock emerged from the cab. The cab behind them, bearing Mrs. Hudson and the luggage, came to a halt. Getting through airport security proved to be a suspiciously easy process, which Sherlock sullenly and silently admitted he was grateful for. Of course, he'd never tell Mycroft that. He'd never tell anyone that.

The flight, itself, was very boring. Sherlock had never been fond of flying. It was hours spent in the air with little to do, save deduce things about the passengers around them. Sherlock had refrained from saying much. Last time he'd flown with John, he'd thought to share his deductions—too loudly according to the doctor—which nearly led to a brawl and an emergency landing in Spain. "Florida," said John, cutting into Sherlock's silent deductions. "What is it like?"

Mrs. Hudson, sitting to John's left, answered, "Oh, it's very lovely—sunny and bright. White sands and blue waters."

"It rains a lot," said Sherlock. "A _lot_."

"The last time I was in Florida Sherlock was with me," said Mrs. Hudson, smiling warmly.

"That was...when your husband was executed?" asked John.

John sounded hesitant. Nervous. "Yes."

Sherlock caught the faint waver in Mrs. Hudson's voice. "Oh."

John wanted the story—the whole story, but he'd caught Mrs. Hudson's hesitance, too. "He deserved it," said Sherlock. "He was a terrible man who killed fourteen women in cold blood."

"_Sherlock_!" John hissed. "Y-you...you..."

"It's fine, John," said Mrs. Hudson. Soft, quiet, accepting. "Sherlock is right. He was a terrible man."

Mrs. Hudson reached over John and clasped Sherlock's hand. Sherlock tensed but let the woman stroke the back of his hand. Her hands were soft and wrinkled with long, delicate fingers. Only Mrs. Hudson was allowed to touch him like that—or maybe John, if the occasion ever arose when he'd need to. "Thank you for inviting me, Sherlock. It means a lot."

Sherlock met the woman's soft gaze. "Sentiment," he said.

"Yes, I'm a sentimental fool, Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson said, a gentle smile on her lips.

The woman patted his hand and then folded her hands in her lap. "My husband was not a good man, Dr. Watson. He was clever, though. He murdered those women and was never suspected—until Sherlock decided to look. He was mean a lot of the time, but sometimes, he was so gentle and kind. Really, meeting Sherlock was the best thing that happened to me. He convinced me to leave."

"You'd already left," Sherlock said. "I didn't have anything to do with it."

"You convinced me not to return to him."

"How?" asked John.

Mrs. Hudson hesitated, and she gave Sherlock a fleeting, inquisitive glance. "She decided getting me off cocaine was more important," said Sherlock.

"_Cocaine_?"

"Yes, John, cocaine."

Sherlock looked towards John, whose gaze showed nothing but surprise. Sherlock had expected disgust or disappointment. Sherlock looked away from him. "Don't you have papers to read, John?"


End file.
